Love is in the Air …

How the story ends…

A Busker’s Love Song

I

Pink-glazed clouds hoist frayed sails

over pilgrims, tourists, ghosts; they flock

around a busker as he folds his wings, frail

golden sheen and half the feathers lost

like his ragged repute.  Some idle thoughts

burst into mind and soul as he admires how

a lonesome painter’s brush slipped across

indigo canvass of the unsuspecting sky.

II

Half-torn  hat in his hand declares

whether to cry or commend this day.

White Lady struts through town and a fan

of yellowed papers saves the busker’s face.

A pirouette later she sweeps his dreams,

his breath, a kiss into drifts. His faith

in providence gives him daily strength

when his heart lies in the gutter.

III

He whistles when stifling day of May

and a bitter song cling by his side;

he follows starry signs and secretly prays

for the Underdog pub to show him the way

to ease this pain.  Behind a wall of noise

five jesters take shots of his rusty stubble.

A trumpet’s cry tears the air above all those

who gather around legend turned to rubble.

IV

A pack of jolly gods cheer as White Lady turns

towards our hero; her dress, his leg, her feet

his chest explodes with thousand fireworks

as his and hers, his and hers lips meet.

Ladies and gentlemen look at them how

they sing of pinkish clouds and the lush

lapis lazulis of the unsuspecting sky

coloured by a painter’s shaky brush.

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Love is in the Air – Part 3

Welcome back and if you would like to catch up with the previous installments click on Part 1 and Part 2.

A Busker’s Love Song – Part 3

He whistles as stifling day of May

And a bitter song cling by his side;

He follows starry signs and secretly prays

for the Underdog pub to show him the way

To ease this pain.  Behind a wall of noise

five jesters take shots of his rusty stubble.

A trumpet’s cry tears the air above all those

who gather around legend turned to rubble.

And there is more next week…

Love is in the Air – Part 1

I wrote this poem when I was in my hometown Krakow last autumn.  I spent days  strolling around the Old Town and observing crowds, pigeons and eccentric street artists.  As a result,  I dedicate this short love story to Krakow and its buskers – here is Part 1 and Part 2 follows next week.

A Busker’s Love Song – Part 1

I

Pink-glazed clouds hoist frayed sails

over pilgrims, tourists, ghosts; they flock

around a busker as he folds his wings, frail

golden sheen and half the feathers lost

Sometimes…

I normally do not find November very motivating… It often feels like a pre-Crimbo limbo with its short, dark days and invasion of corny adverts.

However… I have recently been reminded that I have a lot to be grateful for.

That it is easy to find happiness if I stop looking.

That even the cloud-encompassed times can be beautiful and inspire some poetry.

Sometimes

when you can’t lift an eyelid

your child stays inside his dreams’ cloud

and it’s not explosion of the clock

but wistful coffee smell that wakes you up.

You loiter near a bridge fence when someone

asks about your day, sweet smell of

your baby’s neck leads you home.

Sometimes you let your lions rest,

lapse into blissful silence, for once

you face your spiders and bats

and realise that they don’t bite.

You climb up your glass mountain

overlook the golden apples. Sometimes

it takes years of sore knuckles

before you can make good bread.

For the first time ever I am joining with Older Mum in the Muddle and her One Week linky. And since it is Monday, it is all about Magic Moments 😉

Magic Guilty Pleasures

There comes a time in every mother’s life when she steals her child’s last biscuit and she does not feel any remorse. 

It is either the biscuit or her sanity.

Guilty as charged.

Just to Let You Know Dear Child

(After William Carlos Williams)

Mummy has eaten

the last biscuit

that was in

your tin box

and which

you wanted to eat

instead of fish & chips

for tea.

Sorry my child

it was yummy

so sweet

so crumbly.

P.S.If you enjoy my blog and poetry you may want to have a look at my latest collection of letters and poetry here.

I am linking up with the fabulous Magic Moments linky.

Spooky Poem

Spooky Poem

I’m very sorry, I’ve tried to write a spooky poem

But I am scared of creepy things:

Like ghosts, dead souls and grumpy Gollum

And anything that is not a bird, but has wings

Love Song

It often comes without a warning – that feeling of great love that makes your heart swell and stops your breath for a second. 

That moment when you realise that you would do anything to protect that little person toddling next to you is magic (it also is nature’s way of ensuring that everyone survives all the tantrums intact…kind of…).

Love Song

I know you by heart my dear

And I start each day with this song

Remember that I am always near

I know you by heart my dear

To this world and time we belong

Words fail me and I may be wrong

I know you by heart my dear

And I start each day with this song

 

Postcards from Peanut – Edinburgh Airport

BlueBeretMum is on holiday in the lovely city of Krakow, Poland and Peanut has decided to keep the blog going and write a few postcards to keep you up to date on our latest adventures.

Since he must have inherited his mum’s love of badly rhymed verse….well, you know what to expect.  Here is your first postcard from Peanut.  Enjoy!

Hey, you rude man at the front of our queue

Get off my mum’s toe, she’s human too!

Beware of her temper or she will stab you

With her Jimmy Choo (off eBay,

A cheap copy. None of your business so boo hoo).

Stale Bread

I have had enough.

I cannot cope with buckets of information thrown at me day in, day out.  Recently I have been:

•  learning names of current movers, shakers and losers 
•  following conflicts, debates and other developments 
•  sifting through facts and irrelevant data
•  ignoring the latest spats on the feminist scene
•  catching up on fashion trends
•  ignoring parenting fads
• memorising Dear Zoo and Postman Bear so that I can recite them on demand in hope to distract Peanut from diving into the toilet

Do not get me wrong, I like knowing what is going on in the world and there is nothing I love more than a good debate but increasingly I have been feeling like sitting down with my hands over my ears and screaming blah blah blah at the TV, my iPod and its constant updates, newspapers, radio and all the non-fiction books piled in front of me.

There is only so much one sponge can absorb.

I have been trying to be on top of everything and as a result I have nothing to say about anything.

I am taking a break from the world of news and constant updates because this is what it is like to be my brain right now:

Stale Bread

My loaf of brain has gone stale, the crust is mouldy;

greenish-blue stink and sprouting hair, my last fresh slice wastes away.

I have nothing to say.

Bloody politics.  Boring.  VIPs and celebrities dangle

from my key ring.  I don’t even try to understand

interest rates, independence twaddle and modern affairs.

Instead, I stuff my brain with carefully selected poultry grain.

Easy to digest and ready-made.  No complaints.

There

you go and listen. I’ve tried to keep it fresh. Years of whizzing

through university.  Vacuum packed knowledge.  Exams were a breeze.

They teach you what goes into well-made bread – you recite

ingredients in your sleep.  You have no idea

how to mix them.

My loaf of brain has dried out around edges.

Tough.  Dear judge, I have tried.

Put me in prison for letting my brain go off.

Sartre, Kierkegaard and Plato will turn the key

and bury it under the last standing library.

I even froze that stale brain of mine,

plastic wrap, no silver screen and the so called smart

technology – an orgy for hot air that made my brain go stale.

It did not help. There is nothing left. The shelves are empty.

I have nothing to sell.

And you…Yes, you over there.  No browsing allowed.

Either buy my stale loaf of brain or…

Go away.

Ballad of My Epic Failure

I have a dream.  No, sorry, I had a dream.  The past tense is very much intentional, as once upon a time I had a dream and then mountains of laundry happened, dirty dishes piled up, dust rats and bunnies multiplied and had to be exterminated and don’t even get me started on The Great British Bake Off! 

Here comes a story of my epic failure told in not so epic rhymes…

There was a time when I thought that by the time I was 34

I would have conquered the literary world

With an opus, a lengthy poem or an intellectual play

In my head I was Jo Conrad of the modern day

So I started with the Great British Novel, the quickest way to get to the top

I bought a notebook, a careful choice of design and colour, and no one would stop

Me from disappearing into a dark cave with my Muse, only to years  later

Emerge pressing my Life’s Work to my chest, you haven’t seen a piece greater

Than this story of love, rain and crime in tune with the Scandi drama fashion

And I imagined that a man in a black suit, with a dodgy past and face pale and ashen

Would get me on a plane to L.A. to pick up my film rights and a hefty check

So I started writing – What the heck!

And when a half blank page mocked me two years into my typing

Full moon, a finished wine bottle and a fleeting thought proved that writing

Wasn’t an easy path to fame, fortune and at least one great award

So I considered other ways;  instead of weeping

I looked ahead and finished the flask, and said Oh Lord

It’s difficult and it hurts.  Also Proust, Tolstoy and Chekhov

Didn’t have the distractions of The Great British Bake Off

So I gave up on the novel but not the wine

And turned to poetry, the art so divine that I was pretty sure

My talents and my rhymes would have the allure of

The crème de la crème of the poetic scene

I searched for inspiration in chocolate and liqueur – Well, in moderation

I poured over Homer, some haikus and Shakespeare

And slept with a rhyming dictionary at my bed

And none the wiser, my Muse was gone, I whispered at dawn

Oh, heavens. No reply.  Then I heard a voice. Just shake your head

And get those metaphors out – this is what good poetry is about

I did.  I typed till my fingers bled

And I ran out of ink so I sat down to plan

How to get that Nobel Prize

It’s not that difficult to write a verse – you cut a sentence in two or three parts

Call them stanzas and find an arty title that no one comprehends

So you can only imagine, my sour surprise

That the Swedish Academy ignored my efforts and so did the other institutions of poetic arts

Oh come on you dinosaurs of Ars Poetica  – I can count syllables and throw in a good rhyme!

Discouraged and defeated I gave up on poetry but this is not how my saga ends because

Brought up in extraordinarily strict conditions and harsh winters  I knew how to survive

And would stumble towards the light at the end of this tunnel … so

I thought long and hard and tried to figure out how I was going to be famous

I met a friend who said Wait, I have a great idea, don’t you worry.

You can write a blog. It is nothing to be ashamed of and besides

Self-publication is in.  These are the times we live in, everyone confides

In the Internet instead of their friends and yearns to have a global audience.

I consulted my Gut, Heart and Conscience

And the verdict was – Go, you have nothing to lose

At first I was amazed, so many stars on the blogging universe

And with the first post out, first like and followers (friends and family)

I embarked on a new journey – could have been much worse

The only problem being – soon I was behind, not many people read

My stream of consciousness that Joyce would love to have written, it all led

To a slow death of my self –esteem, my hope and my lifetime dreams

You see, I don’t embroider and crochet and I don’t take snapshots of what I cook

I’m not a political animal and I don’t bother with messy play, look

All I want is to write about my days, my child and myself, not bad themes

For posts that take me ages to craft, in between changing nappies and watching the XFactor

Oh why don’t publishers notice my talents! I despaired as I replied to one detractor

That tried to sell me some fat busting drink

And 3 days into blogging and no bloody fame I was on the brink of

Closing the shop. Who cares if I do, who cares if I don’t?

I will never be a blinding star, not even a slow satellite on the bloggy firmament

But before I left I gave it one more chance and took a photo of a stale croissant

I blogged about slaving in the kitchen, I lamented

It’s tough to be the perfect mother, partner and part time worker

And with a new follower and two likes later

I saw a light of hope, a mere spark of faith that it wasn’t all in vain

So tomorrow I’ll post about a knitted kitten in the cyber domain

And who knows, maybe this ballad will be a hit

Although I now realise that the rhymes are frankly  …

Not very good